


save me, save you

by drow



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: Comic Book Science, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2020-12-25 00:00:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21108140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drow/pseuds/drow
Summary: Batman allows himself to look then; and sees pain, longing,hopein the eyes of the man who calls himself theJokerand thinks,I shouldn't be here.or,Bruce Wayne tries to go back in time in order to save Jason Todd, but crashes into another universe instead.





	1. watch calmly,

They’d done the impossible before, Alfred and him and. . . the League, he supposes. It’s fine, though, it really is—he’s getting used to the team, to being a part of it, even though it annoys him sometimes, when they step foot into Gotham, the only place they’re not allowed to—

(“You’re _obsessed _with—”

“_Kal_.”)

Anyway.

Wally calls it. . . what does he call it? Temporal teleportation.

“I don’t want that,” he’d said, then, and watched as Wally’s face changed, watched as his eyes turned dark in resignation.

“You want to change—”

“Yes.”

He called him a fool, then, and he remembers wanting to scream at him, I know, I know, _I know_. But he’s desperate. He’s lost the one thing he thought he’d have forever, or. _Christ_.

Diana doesn’t look at him in the eye. She doesn’t understand it, any of it. She tells him that his—his—_Jason _died with honor and it’s quite funny, really, how easy she can say that. She doesn’t know.

Wally tries to explain it to him, the Speed Force, and how easy it is to get trapped inside of it, and how the outcomes would not be worth the risks and Bruce tells him to shut it, then, because while Batman is clear-headed, logical, Bruce Wayne can be the opposite. Bruce Wayne doesn’t want to hear the risks; he simply wants his son back.

Wally promises him, tells him that he’ll provide the right amount of force that could _potentially _send him a few years back.

Alfred begs him, _begs him_, not to do this, tells him that sometimes, sometimes. Sometimes you just have to live with it. _You and I already know a thing or two about that, don’t we Master Bruce?_

And Clark comes to the cave, opens his mouth but closes it the second he sees the determined glint in his eyes. He leaves.

Bruce is fine. He doesn’t panic, he simply waits.

And if he gets trapped in this force that he can’t even wrap his mind around? That’s _fine_.

…

His senses get even more dulled as he’s pulled in towards the force, the _Speed Force_, and it feels like every cell inside of him vibrates with the kind of energy only a star would have but Bruce lets himself go, and. . . gets trapped.

(“You’ll push and pull, and _push_—”

Bruce raises an eyebrow, “You’re not making a lot of sense.”

“You want to change the past by travelling backwards in time with the speed of light and a force that could change the rotation of _Earth_.”

_Oh_. “Right.”)

He pushes and pulls, not really knowing what exactly he’s supposed to push, or pull, or both. _Then_, he feels it. Millions of particles diverge and merge and suddenly, _suddenly_. He’s the one being pushed.

…

It’s a lot less dramatic than he thought it’d be, that’s for sure. He throws up as soon as his feet land on solid ground.

He’s only human but then again, he isn’t really all that ordinary; dressing up as a bat and traveling backwards in time and all that.

But—holy shit, _holy shit_.

He looks around and thinks to himself, _well_. If this is Gotham, it’s hell of a lot dirtier than he remembers it to be. Gotham was never clean, or pretty—Gotham was dark, breathtaking, dangerous, beautiful, but it was certainly never like this.

Or was it not? He doesn’t remember.

Maybe he’s not in Gotham.

“Excuse me,” he says to a woman passing by and ignores the way she curls her lip in revulsion to his sorry state. “Where am I?”

“You are at the docks, sweetheart,” the woman says, then points at his lips, “You really ought’ a clean that up—”

“_Where am I_?” He growls, then, impatient, and watches as the woman’s eyes grow wide.

“Gotham Docks! I told you—”

Docks. Gotham Docks—_Gotham_—

Christ. He really. . . he did it. _He did it_.

He laughs, and the sound surprises even himself. It’s a bitter, ugly thing, but he doesn’t care, _he doesn’t_, because he did it. He can do _something_, he can—

The woman murmurs something about how the city doesn’t need two laughing maniacs and Bruce is suddenly on high alert, all the panic and hysteria disappearing like it was never there. He narrows his eyes. “Two laughing maniacs,” he murmurs.

“Why, _yes_,” the woman rolls her eyes, and she reminds him of Selina so much that he reels back a bit, just for a moment. She lights up a cigarette and looks at him, _looks_, making Bruce fidget even though his heart is pounding and his chest is hurting so much that it’s getting a little difficult for him to breathe.

He doesn’t quite understand the reason why she still hasn’t left, but he’s not about to pass up an opportunity, “What did you mean by that?”

“By what?”

He growls, “Answer the question.”

“Do you always growl like an animal?” She rolls her eyes. “Was talking ‘bout the Joker, of course. You must’ve heard of him.”

“Sure.”

“He’s been around for God knows how long,” she huffs. “Well, that’s not true. He’s been around for seven years, now. Today’s his anniversary, even.”

_His anniversary. _The idea of this being anything other than a coincidence sends shivers down his spine.

“. . .1981.”

“What?”

“14thof October, 1981. That’s when the Movement began, or so they say,” she takes a long drag of her cigarette, and Bruce notices that her eyes are wet. “Today’s 14thof October too, I believe. He always prepares somethin’ special to remind us that the city still belongs to him.”

Bruce. . . doesn’t understand. He takes a deep breath, tries not to remember the way how Wally said a single misstep could change everything, could trap him, could send him _elsewhere_. . .

“Today’s 1988,” he says. Closes his eyes when he sees the woman nod. Whispers, “How old is the Joker?”

“I don’t know,” he hears her say, his eyes still firmly shut. “Thirty-somethin’, I believe. Forty? I really don’t know.”

“No Batman?”

“The hell’s a Batman?”

He’s in a Gotham where there’s no Batman, and _a middle aged Joker _roaming freely in the streets. In _1988._

Bruce doesn’t panic. He doesn’t—he doesn’t _panic. _He breathes deeply, rakes his fingers through his hair and tries to. . . he doesn’t know, he doesn’t _know _and really, what would Batman do in a situation like this?

He should know, right? Except this is all Bruce, now, with his suit in a dark, aluminum case that looks alien in a place like this and this is _all _Bruce, the man who lost his son, the man who tried to bring his son back and failed—instead trapping himself in a universe far from his own and Christ, _Christ_. _What’s he going to do?_

"I need to go," he murmurs to himself.

"Wipe that vomit off your face, first," the woman says. 

“I need to go,” he repeats. “But I have nowhere to go. I’m—I can’t do anything like this.”

“Come to my place, then,” she says, and Bruce turns to look at her in sheer shock. She, if only just for a moment, looks at him with so much understanding that he, for a hysterical moment, thinks that he knows her, they’ve met before, he _knows _her—

She extends her hand. “Selina.”

His first reaction is, of_ course_. And then, _this must be fate._

“Selina,” Bruce nearly sobs, making her brows furrow in confusion. “You’re. . . Selina Kyle.”

She has long, dark curls that hide her gaunt face and little scars littered around her nose, like they were done by kittens. She’s shorter, leaner, but beautiful, _beautiful _and so, so different. Eyes, Bruce thinks. Her eyes are the same. Green eyes narrowed in suspicion but disguised with charm, grace.

“How do you know my name?” Selina asks. “Who sent you?”

She’s smiling, now, and Bruce knows they’re already in the game, except this Selina has no idea that he’s had quite the time to become well acquainted with the rules. “No one,” he says. “I’m Batman.”

“Batman?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting name,” she says, inspecting her nails. The familiarity makes him want to sigh in relief. “You’re not from around here, are you, Batman?”

“No, I’m not,” he looks around, sees the dirt, the people, the clown posters on the ground, on the walls, sees Lady Gotham in the distance with clown make-up done with graffiti and says, “Well. Maybe I was, once.”

She doesn’t say anything back, and after a minute he turns his gaze away from Gotham (home. _home?_) and looks at her, finds her looking at him with those intelligent, sharp eyes and he lets her look because even though they don’t know each other in this universe, Bruce knows he’ll owe her in some way in every one.

“You’re weird,” she huffs, then, and rocks back on her heels, making her curls bounce. “Listen. _Batman_. You need a place to stay? Mine’s available. But whatever you’re plannin’ to do? I don’t want to be a part of it, and I won’t even ask how you know my name. Alright?”

“Alright.”

“Good,” Selina Kyle grins, all cat-like. “Now we better get off the streets before the show starts.”


	2. the failing breath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re not crazy too, are you?” Selina asks.

Bruce tries not to think about what this will mean to him on his way to Selina’s apartment. He tries not to, but fails, because everywhere he looks he sees Gotham with paint; dirtied, ugly, unworthy,_Father would be so disappointed_.

And all of a sudden Bruce is a child again, in Crime Alley, looking down at the bodies of his parents in shock, shaking. And after,_after_, thinking how this isn’t right, this isn’t_just_.

“Batman,” Selina says, her voice coming from behind him. He startles, looks back, sees her standing a few feet away from a dark green door with a brow raised. “We’re here.”

Bruce nods, “Right,” he says and starts walking towards her when he hits something plastic with his foot. He looks down, and sees a clown mask in the dirt. The eyes and the mouth is black, touched only with a smudge of red and blue and Bruce thinks, _oh_. Joker.

“Batman,” Selina repeats, more forcefully this time. She’s looking at the mask with a weird look on her face. “Come on.”

The inside of Selina’s apartment is a mess, and that is a relief to him, for some reason. And just like the other Selina, this one is fond of cats, too, of course. Bruce’s mouth twitches, when he sees three cats on her couch, but his mind doesn’t let him smile._Not yet_, he thinks, then wonders where that even came from and what it even means.

_One bad day_, Joker had said. “Huh,” Bruce says. “Guess he was right.”

“What?”

Selina’s sitting on the arm of her couch, scratching the head of her black cat while looking at him. The cat looks at him, too, then. Bruce suppresses a shiver.

“Nothing,” he decides on saying. “Nothing. Just a, um. . . was just thinking about a bad joke, that’s all.”

“Well, don't think too hard,” Her eyes harden, “Joker isn’t too fond of bad jokes.”

“I know.”

“You know him?”

“Didn’t say that.”

“What did you mean, then?”

“I don’t know the Joker,” and it isn’t really a lie, because while Bruce is certainly well-acquainted with_his _Joker, he doesn’t know this one at all. The Joker back home is too well connected to him; even his daily plans were mostly done to spite him and bring him out. As stupid or—

(_romantic_,)

—crazy it may sound; Bruce can’t really imagine a world where there’s a Joker without a Batman.

(“What would I do without you?”

“You’re the reason I smile!”

“_Dance with me, Batsy_—”)

“You’re not crazy too, are you?” Selina asks.

Bruce Wayne smiles his playboy smile, it stretching his face muscles a little too tight to the point where it hurts, "Of course not."

"Of course not," she repeats, and smiles, too, but Bruce knows she sees right through him. She's Selina Kyle after all, different universe or not. 

“Listen,” Bruce says, and looks around the apartment a little, sees a few art pieces that he knows are too expensive to be in a place like this._She steals_, he realizes, and finds the situation that he’s in a little funny. This Gotham has Catwoman, Joker, and, who knows, many others, but_not Batman_. “I need you to tell me about Joker.”

Selina frowns, “Why?”

Bruce frowns back, “You told me you wouldn’t intervene with my plans.”

“I said I didn’t want to be a part of it.”

“And?”

“And if I tell you anything, I’ll_become_a part of it. And I bet it’ll go too deep until I won’t be able to pull myself back up,” she says, and drops her gaze like she’s getting bored. “I’m not telling you shit.”

Being Batman is easier than being Bruce, he is once again reminded of this, because Bruce is_angry_, and while he is good at manipulation with words, he’s been always better at persuasion with his punches, kicks, gadgets. “Selina,” he grits out. “I’m not asking for much.”

“You’re growling again.”

He says, loudly, “I’m not—” but stops himself, takes deep breathes and looks out of the window, which is a mistake, because it only makes him_angrier_, seeing the dirt, seeing the nonchalant way the people walk like this is right, like this is_normal_. “Tell me about the Movement, then. His personality. His M.O. The way you’d talk about him to a friend who lives in another state over dinner.”

“I wouldn’t talk about the clown over anything,” she sighs, and continues before Bruce can open his mouth, “but I see your point.”

“_Thank you_.”

“Batman,” she suddenly says, and the solemnity in her gaze makes Bruce stand a bit straighter. “Are you planning on killing him?”

He doesn’t hesitate, “No.”

She starts talking.

“He’s a performer,” she says. Bruce nods, because if he could describe him with only one word, that’d be the thing he’d choose. “He, uh. Well. Thinks of most things as jokes, I guess. It’s difficult to understand him, let alone analyze his behavior. He_dances_. The rumors say that he’d dance in front of the personnel in Arkham, and that’s how they’d know that he killed someone.”

This Joker dances, more than he laughs; so much that it’s mentioned first. Interesting.

“And his laugh,” Selina shudders. Bruce wonders if it echoes inside her, too, like it does inside of him now and then. A curse, a _link_. “It’s. . . it’s, well. It’s a difficult thing to describe, too. They said he had a, um. A condition. One that causes him to have uncontrollable laughter.”

“Pseudobulbar affect,” Bruce murmurs while pacing around the room. “Neurologic disorder. Brain injury.” The Joker back home didn’t have it, his laughter was his signature, sometimes genuine when he had fun, and he had a lot of it, or a tool used expertly to intimidate and manipulate people. “So he can’t control his laughter?”

“He looks like he’s enjoying what he does,” she shrugs. “Especially when he’s dancing. But there are footages of him laughing till he throws up, so I don’t really know.”

“Hm,” he nods. “Anything else?”

“He doesn’t like being called unworthy,” she whispers. Bruce stops pacing. “He beat a man till he was drowning in his own blood just for that, and he laughed, and he cried, and he_danced_.”

Selina looked to her side, to her wilting flowers, “I hated this city. Hated the people who thought they were in control of it._The Waynes_,” she spits out, and Bruce freezes. “So I liked him at first, creating a movement out of nowhere, inspiring people to take a step forward but then it all went to shit. Because nobody, and I mean_nobody, _knew what a monster Joker truly was.”

“What was. . .” His breath catches, and he has to clear his throat. “What was wrong with the Waynes?”

“He didn’t care about the people._Us_,” she says, and continues when she sees the confused arch of his brow, “Thomas Wayne.”

_No_, he wants to shout then, _Thomas Wayne was a beacon of hope in this goddamned place, filled with rats rats rats_—

He stays silent. Clenches his fists, notices Selina noticing it, but he doesn’t care. “Thomas Wayne,” he says, quietly.

“Thomas Wayne,” Selina nods, and the malice in her voice ignites something in his chest, making it difficult for him to breathe. “He’s the one who started the Movement, really. Throwing his fancy dinner parties, leaving all of us here to rot while he smiled for the cameras, calling us _clowns_.”

She laughs, making Bruce flinch, “Bet he regrets that. Though it wouldn’t matter much, now, right?”

“He’s dead,” Bruce says.

“Yeah.”

His head feels heavy and his heart hammers in his chest, but he presses on, “And the child,” he says, hesitantly. Like he’s afraid of. . . whatever he’s afraid of. _Everything_, he thinks, but that may just be the scariest thought he’s ever had. “He had a child, right? A boy?”

“He left the city, I think,” Selina says, “With his. . . butler? Valet? Whatever the fuck he’s called. Good thing they did, too, because Joker burned the manor to the ground. Nothing left of it, now.”

“He didn’t like the Waynes?”

“Oh, he _hated _the Waynes,” she says. “That’s what had made him so likable at first.”

…

After, when Bruce finally cleaned his face with a wet towel and sat down, Selina asks him questions, but Bruce can’t really answer any of them, except for one. _What’s in that case_, she asks, and he answers, because he _can_, because in this Gotham he is a nobody, he has no identity and people knowing that Batman has blue eyes and dark hair under the mask would not hurt him, not here.

“You dress up as a bat and kill people,” she says.

“I don’t kill.”

“Really?” Bruce wonders why she looks so suspicious, wonders if he looks like a man without morals. He remembers Selina’s eyes widening when they met and wonders if Alfred saw a monster in the mornings in the cave, a madman; a man willing to do anything to achieve what he believes is just.

“Really.”

“So you dress up as a bat, psychoanalyze people, hurt them up real bad and do some detective work,” she says, eyeing the black case resting just next to Bruce’s feet. “And you say you’re not crazy.”

“I have a code,” he says. “It keeps me sane.”

“Sure,” she says. She doesn’t believe him, of course, why would she? Bruce had to make a lot of compromises in order to be where he is, _dressed as a bad_, hurting people, all of the things that she said, but if there’s one thing he’s not good at, it is trying to explain himself to others. It’s a hard thing to talk about, the ache, _hole_, in your chest that never seems to go away and only briefly lets him breathe when it’s night and he’s out, patrolling, keeping guard.

He stands up, takes his case. Its heaviness is a relief, almost. He needs to become Batman; he needs to have control.

Selina stands up with him, her eyes gleaming with poorly-hidden curiosity.

“When and where will these shows start?” He asks, and his voice is already deeper, he already stands straighter. Selina must’ve noticed it, too, because her gaze changes, from curiosity to _anticipation_.

She shrugs, “They probably already started. Crime Alley, the Bowery, Fashion District. . .” She shrugs again. “My best bet would be Gotham Square, though.”

“Gotham Square,” he mutters. _He’s a performer._

“He’ll dance and sing and laugh and kill,” Selina continues, and she looks at him a little differently now, one Bruce would describe as _concerned _but this is Selina Kyle, and Selina Kyle doesn’t get concerned, especially for a stranger who she’s only recently met. “He’s dangerous, Batman.”

“I know,” he says, and tries to smile reassuringly, but it falls flat and he lets it drop.

“I don’t think you do.”

_I do_, a growl echoes within the walls of his mind. _I do_. _He killed my son. He killed_—

He gets into a room, then, and looks at Selina, closes the door when he sees her nod. Sees a pair of practical, black goggles with large lenses by the window and nearly smiles.

He puts the case on the bed and puts his finger on the fingerprint reader. It recognizes him instantly, and opens with a quiet hiss. Bruce looks at the ceiling, tries to forget how he traveled between universes in a manner of seconds, and how he doesn’t even know how something like this could’ve happened and what will happen to him now.

It’s interesting, how everything goes to shit and the first thing Bruce thinks about is _Joker_.

The case itself opens further when Bruce pushes it down a bit, and he panics for a moment when he thinks that maybe the time-traveling—

(_Christ_.)

—fucked the whole mechanism up or something, because this is _high-tech _and Alfred isn’t with him.

_God_, he really is all alone, isn’t he?

To his relief the case opens up quickly after that, dividing into three large parts, the cowl sitting in the main part beneath the other two, and he takes it into his hands and wonders how this Gotham will react, to a symbol against their own.

It’s getting dark.

_Batman_, he hears Oracle’s voice, and closes his eyes, feels the cowl burn his skin. _Time for your nightly patrol._

…

He touches the black goggles of Catwoman on his way out of the window and thinks once again, _maybe this really is fate_. It is a stupid thought, of course; one that he banishes almost instantly.

And then he’s out, letting his arms fall to his sides as he flies down and thinks about Gotham, Joker, Selina—he’s ready, he thinks. He’s ready to meet the city. He’ll go to Gotham Square, first. Maybe see if the Old Gotham still exists, and if Gordon is still there. He doesn’t know.

He lands on a roof low enough to see and hear the people down on the streets clearly. Most of them wear clown masks and he notices instantly that Selina lives near the Fashion District, and continues on.

Up north is the Lady of Justice, and to his left he can make out the docks and he knows that if he goes west he’ll be in Old Gotham, but he doesn’t know much about the history of this Gotham, and nor does he have the time to really investigate.

Blackgate is behind him, and Batman knows that his cave was beneath Old Gotham and even if the universe is different, he knows this land, knows how it looks and how to operate.

Traveling to Gotham Square isn’t as hard as it would’ve been back home; there’s no Two-Face near Port Adams, no Penguin in Diamond, no Poison Ivy near Robinson. He’s starting to wonder what exactly is Gotham in this universe, if it is still the metal prison, if it’s still known for its crimes.

Maybe all of them are preparing for whatever horrors they’re about to unleash tonight, but for some reason he doubts it.

_Joker owns this city_, Selina said. Bruce wants to know how much of it he owns, really.

By the time he arrives near the bridge, there’s already shouting and hollering in the streets, and he hears laughter, too; tenses for a second because of it but it’s not the kind of laughter Joker would have, he thinks. Joker’s laughter is a different kind, one that makes you stop moving, one that makes you feel helpless.

He lands on the ground this time, and yanks a man with a clown costume by his neck, causing both him and the officer he was just about to maim to recoil in shock.

_Batman_, _it’s time for your nightly p—_

He punches the clown hard, and grabs the gun by its muzzle to point it upwards just before the officer fires. “I won’t hurt you,” he says.

“You—_you_—”

“Not if you don't give me a reason to.”

The man audibly swallows. Batman eases his hold on him, takes his gaze off of him when he sees him holding the gun by his side. He looks at Gotham Square, so painfully familiar yet so alien at the same time and thinks, this isn’t as bad as Gotham was when he first started.

He wonders about this Gotham’s Bruce Wayne, and if he’ll return.

“Commissioner Gordon,” Batman says, not having enough patience to not be direct at this point. “Where is he?”

The officer frowns. “He’s dead.”

_Goddamn it. _

“GCPD?”

“We’re doing whatever we can,” the man nods, foolishly determined. “But these people. . . they’re _mad_. They worship the shit out of Joker, and now they’re saying that they’re going to divide the districts by criminals. Every one of ‘em chosen by Joker.”

“Hm,” he says. Sees two officers with guns pointing at a woman who’s holding a clown mask in one hand, a man’s bloodied head in the other. He clenches his fists.

“Who are you?” The officer asks.

Batman doesn’t answer.

He rushes forward, but one of the men shoots the woman in the head, and he—he stops moving.

He hears the laughter, then. Behind him.

He shivers, shivers, and _shivers_. It’s different, he realizes. But it _is _the Joker’s laugh. He’s sure of it.

He doesn’t want to look behind, but he has to. He has no other choice.

The first thing he notices is the make-up. His hands are that of a normal skin color, and the white is already a little muddy on his face, screwing up the paint around his eyes, and suddenly there is rain, like it had been waiting for this moment, the moment when Batman sees Joker for the first time, underneath the things that he’s used to; the white, the blue, the _red_.

This Joker dances, he realizes, even when he’s not moving at all. His eyebrows are raised, and he looks almost peaceful, and his steps are lighter, and his shoulders are moving and—he’s _dancing_—

_(He dances when he kills._)

—and there are specks of blood on his face. His hands are red.

Joker sees him, then, tilts his head at what he guesses the way he looks at him with such care, absorbing every detail, analyzing every flaw.

The clown chuckles, “You’re dressed like a bat.”

Batman doesn’t say anything. He just keeps looking, at his long, green hair and red suit and the way he struggles to be still. His voice is softer, too, than his Joker.

“Like what you see?” Joker asks.

Batman growls out, “_No_,” and kicks him in the stomach. Watches, satisfied, as the man doubles over, wheezing and laughing, hates the way his heart hammers in his chest, already looking forward to the next move.

Somebody throws a bottle at his head behind him, and while he doesn’t feel a thing, he fights down the urge to flinch. Voices suddenly get louder and louder, and when he looks back he sees dozens of people in either clown make-up or masks.

“No,” Joker manages to say, but it’s quiet and nobody hears him. He straightens himself, and Batman watches as the emotion in his eyes change and he runs forward, not towards Batman, no, but towards a woman who's holding a knife (_and she's very close to him how did he not see her approaching_) no doubt to stab him.

He grabs the Joker by his shoulder, to stop whatever he’s doing, but pairs of hands grab him by his cape and shoulders, pressing a gun under his chin and he reels back, helpless to do anything but shout while he watches Joker plunge a knife of his own deep into the woman’s neck.

Watches as the clown twirls around, takes his gun out, and points it at the people who are holding Batman down.

“Release him,” he says, and his voice is so frighteningly sweet. “And leave us.”

The man behind him, who’s holding the gun under his chin, hesitates, and Batman can’t help but think _fool _before he, too, gets shot, and he closes his eyes and wonders about the irony, how he always wanted to alone and the moments that he is are the ones that he’s the most impotent.

The warmth behind him leaves, and he opens his eyes.

The Joker is so close to him, and _he has blue eyes_.

“Hey,” he says.

Batman doesn’t say anything.

Joker pouts but it only lasts for a second before he lets out a weak chuckle. “You must be new in my city, but look how well you adapted already!”

“Gotham is not your city.”

Joker _laughs_, almost doubles over and groans while he’s still laughing which makes him cough and Batman thinks, _PBA_. _It’s true_.

“That’s funny,” Joker says. “Look around you a little. I _own _this place. Threw the best parties for over six years.”

The clown traces a finger on the bat symbol on his chest, then. Batman fights himself to stand still. “Who are you?” He asks.

“Someone who can stop you.”

“But no one can stop me,” Joker murmurs, like he’s talking to himself, and he sounds _intrigued_.

“I can,” Batman growls. “And I will.”

Siren sounds make them both turn their heads, and Joker mutters out a ‘_shit_’ before turning his gaze back to Batman, and he makes a noise deep in his chest like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“I have a performance tonight,” Joker takes his hand off of him, and for some reason Batman follows. The clown raises a brow. “I’ll see you then. See if you can keep your promise.”

Batman takes hold of Joker’s hair in an instant, watches as the Joker’s eyes widen, then close, as if he’s waiting for something to happen _desperately _and he admits, grudgingly, that if Batman’s good at one thing, it’s giving Joker what he wants.

He tightens his hold on the green locks, and brings up the front of his knee to the clown's face, and does it again and ahain until he hears the satisfying crack, and he doesn’t lessen the hold on the clown’s hair even when he falls, even when he laughs as he scratches his nails on Batman’s gloves, trying to get free.

A man in a black coat approaches him, then, and Batman blinks, looks around. There are a few more dead masked men on the ground, but most of them are alive and on their knees with guns pointed at their temples by officers but these ones look different. More organized.

The man brings out a pair of handcuffs but Batman shakes his head. Brings out his own from his pouch, says, “Made out of a different material. He won’t be able to get out.”

“Huh,” the man says. “How do _I _get him out of ‘em?”

“Why would you want to?”

“Good point,” he huffs. “I’m Detective Burke. Who the fuck are you?”

“Batman,” he says, and cuffs the Joker quickly, handing him over to the detective.

“Fitting.”

“He’ll be out,” Batman says.

Burke grimaces, and nods.

Joker’s stopped laughing. He asks, “How will you keep your promise?”

Batman fires the grapple hook on the nearest roof, says, “You’ll see soon enough,” and lets himself be pulled to the dark, with the fading sound of Joker giggling behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> ♡


End file.
